Entries tagged with paintings

Before catching the train back to Edinburgh, I went off to Tate Britain. Mostly, I wanted to see Martin Creed’s Work No. 850, but whilst there I thought I’d catch the Bacon retrospective and see the works shortlisted for the Turner Prize, too; and make the use of my new Tate membership…

I was expecting to really dislike Work No. 850, if only because it is not what I would normally consider “art”: it basically consists of people running through the main hall of Tate Britain. One after another. Not painting; not sculpture; not even an unmade bed: but people in running gear, running through an otherwise empty gallery?( Read more... )

Before catching the train back to Edinburgh, I went off to Tate Britain. Mostly, I wanted to see Martin Creed’s Work No. 850, but whilst there I thought I’d catch the Bacon retrospective and see the works shortlisted for the Turner Prize, too; and make the use of my new Tate membership…

I was expecting to really dislike Work No. 850, if only because it is not what I would normally consider “art”: it basically consists of people running through the main hall of Tate Britain. One after another. Not painting; not sculpture; not even an unmade bed: but people in running gear, running through an otherwise empty gallery?( Read more... )

I spent an afternoon in Tate Modern. Mostly, I wanted to see the Rothko retrospective (and I shall be making return visits to that), but I caught a couple of other shows and, having followed the lead made by psychochicken and become a member of the Tate, made the most of the facilities there (a good lunch, a couple of coffees, and a great view!).

Entering the Turbine Hall, I had expected to be assaulted by giant sculptures; but the Dominique Gonzales-Foerster exhibit, THX 2058, are hidden behind screens. This is art which was trying to tell a tale – there is a whole back-story to the creation of the giant sculptures – homages to Alexander Calder, Louise Bougeois and a couple of other people I didn’t know: giant versions of already large pieces.

I spent an afternoon in Tate Modern. Mostly, I wanted to see the Rothko retrospective (and I shall be making return visits to that), but I caught a couple of other shows and, having followed the lead made by psychochicken and become a member of the Tate, made the most of the facilities there (a good lunch, a couple of coffees, and a great view!).

Entering the Turbine Hall, I had expected to be assaulted by giant sculptures; but the Dominique Gonzales-Foerster exhibit, THX 2058, are hidden behind screens. This is art which was trying to tell a tale – there is a whole back-story to the creation of the giant sculptures – homages to Alexander Calder, Louise Bougeois and a couple of other people I didn’t know: giant versions of already large pieces.

Last week, when I was out with my tripod, I returned to Old St Paul’s, to have another look at Alison Watt’s “Still” – and to try taking some more pictures: using the tripod would allow me to use a far slower shutter speed and so a slower sensor setting, getting images without having to manipulate them too much. I wanted to see what I could do with more freedom with the shutter.

It was a different visit to my last: having a tripod just makes me feel different – more self-conscious, more tied down (despite the greater flexibility it provides); and there were other people in the church, and in the chapel: they were cleaning the lamps in the chapel, and cleaning the church as a whole. So that was another reason for feeling more self conscious. Plus I could get the self-timer on the camera to work properly – the exposures were many seconds, and I used the self-timer to avoid shaking the camera by squeezing the shutter release.

I am not sure if the different exposure makes a difference to the images: perhaps they are clearer and cleaner, but less characterful.

Last week, when I was out with my tripod, I returned to Old St Paul’s, to have another look at Alison Watt’s “Still” – and to try taking some more pictures: using the tripod would allow me to use a far slower shutter speed and so a slower sensor setting, getting images without having to manipulate them too much. I wanted to see what I could do with more freedom with the shutter.

It was a different visit to my last: having a tripod just makes me feel different – more self-conscious, more tied down (despite the greater flexibility it provides); and there were other people in the church, and in the chapel: they were cleaning the lamps in the chapel, and cleaning the church as a whole. So that was another reason for feeling more self conscious. Plus I could get the self-timer on the camera to work properly – the exposures were many seconds, and I used the self-timer to avoid shaking the camera by squeezing the shutter release.

I am not sure if the different exposure makes a difference to the images: perhaps they are clearer and cleaner, but less characterful.

Last weekend, I missed the bus that was meant to take me to the hills. Finding myself with a spare day, I decided to wander around some galleries.

I went first to the Ingleby Gallery for last exhibition in their current setting. The Ingleby is one of my favourite galleries anywhere: set in the ground floor of a Georgian townhouse, it is as if you have been invited into someone’s house to look at some art (which is, perhaps, how this gallery started: the upper floors remain a family home). It always feels like a privilege going to see art there: the scale is very personal. I love it.

For the last year, they have staged a series of duets: two artists showing together, one contemporary artist paired with another, usually less contemporary.

Last weekend, I missed the bus that was meant to take me to the hills. Finding myself with a spare day, I decided to wander around some galleries.

I went first to the Ingleby Gallery for last exhibition in their current setting. The Ingleby is one of my favourite galleries anywhere: set in the ground floor of a Georgian townhouse, it is as if you have been invited into someone’s house to look at some art (which is, perhaps, how this gallery started: the upper floors remain a family home). It always feels like a privilege going to see art there: the scale is very personal. I love it.

For the last year, they have staged a series of duets: two artists showing together, one contemporary artist paired with another, usually less contemporary.

“Still” is set in a side chapel; it is barely lit by a window to its right, and a small candle flickering directly below the painting. The left wall is a war memorial, a list of names of those who died – presumably parishioners – in the first and second world wars.

The painting is of hanging cloth, I suppose, and the luxuriant folds suggest loss and absence.

The combination of the painting the long list of names is deeply moving. The whole really is still; I had to sit a while, just looking. The light, the painting and the names are very affecting.

“Still” is set in a side chapel; it is barely lit by a window to its right, and a small candle flickering directly below the painting. The left wall is a war memorial, a list of names of those who died – presumably parishioners – in the first and second world wars.

The painting is of hanging cloth, I suppose, and the luxuriant folds suggest loss and absence.

The combination of the painting the long list of names is deeply moving. The whole really is still; I had to sit a while, just looking. The light, the painting and the names are very affecting.

F. and I went to see the Barbican exhibition “Seduced: Art and Sex from Antiquity to Now”. Seduced is not an apt description: it left me completely cold. As F. said, they must have worked really hard to make sex so boring.

F. and I went to see the Barbican exhibition “Seduced: Art and Sex from Antiquity to Now”. Seduced is not an apt description: it left me completely cold. As F. said, they must have worked really hard to make sex so boring.

On Thursday, the tube I was on stopped at Oxford Circus, and I noticed that the walls of the tunnel were being stripped of layers of posters and cleaned.

Yesterday I went back and got off the tube to have a better look. It felt like I was an archaeologist, looking down through the layers to different ages.

It also looked like abstract paintings – particularly those by Clyfford Still: jagged lightning cutting across the walls.

I took a lot of pictures; here are some of them.

(Also, when I got back from Oxford Circus and was sitting comfortably at my laptop, looking through my friends page, I saw this post by the rather wonderful tubewhore, who had exactly the same idea, although she was at Leicester Square; perhaps they are scraping the posters away throughout the West End.)

On Thursday, the tube I was on stopped at Oxford Circus, and I noticed that the walls of the tunnel were being stripped of layers of posters and cleaned.

Yesterday I went back and got off the tube to have a better look. It felt like I was an archaeologist, looking down through the layers to different ages.

It also looked like abstract paintings – particularly those by Clyfford Still: jagged lightning cutting across the walls.

I took a lot of pictures; here are some of them.

(Also, when I got back from Oxford Circus and was sitting comfortably at my laptop, looking through my friends page, I saw this post by the rather wonderful tubewhore, who had exactly the same idea, although she was at Leicester Square; perhaps they are scraping the posters away throughout the West End.)